Friendly reminder that this same clip has like FIVE MILLION views on twitter. People who had never watched the show were genuinely impressed by the acting in this scene.

We're not surviving season four lol

StopNCII.org is operated by the Revenge Porn Helpline which is part of SWGfL, a charity that believes that everyone should benefit from technology, free from harm. Founded in 2000, SWGfL works with a number of partners and stakeholders around the world to protect everyone online

Sounds legit

everyone reblog this!!

[Image ID: screenshot from TikTok(?) containing the following text:

Cousins, if someone ever edits your photo with Al or Photoshop to create a nude photo, then you go to www.stopncii.org/and submit the original photo and the edited photo, then they will remove the edited photo from all the places on the Internet. You don't need to talk directly to anyone for this and your identity will remain confidential

/end ID]

Per StopNCII.org, only their partner sites will remove the images, not “all the places on the Internet”—but that’s better than nothing.

"do what?" you might wonder. well. [gestures broadly]

I know I just reblogged this but the idea of recreating art from your ancestors FIFTEEN THOUSAND years later is quite beautiful. Like, imagine someone in the year 17,025 recreating art you did just cuz they like it.

You may have liked your artwork or you may have been like 'meh, not my best work', but literal hundreds of generations after you died, a person speaking a language you cannot understand, living in a future so alien to you that you couldn't possibly imagine it, made a sculpture of your art and shared it with thousands and thousands of people on a communication network that uses lightening inside flattened rocks and invisible waves of light that travels to where the stars live and back. And they all love it. Everyone who sees it is like 'aww, that's nice' or 'holy shit I love this'.

They never knew. They, their kids, and their kid's kids never knew that this would happen to that art.

Much the same as you'll never know if your fun little bits of art may survive a crazy long time and be loved by future people.

[ID: Images of a needle-felted prehistoric horse with a cave handprint on its flank, compared with the ancient cave drawings that inspired its creator. End ID.]

I’ve noticed a sort of implicit belief that people used to do things the hard way in the past because they were tougher or something. In reality, labor-saving devices have historically been adopted by the populace as soon as they were economically feasible. No one stood in front of a smoky fire or a boiling pot of lye soap for hours because they were virtuous, they did it because it was the only way to survive.

Taking these screenshots from Facebook because they make you log in and won't let you copy and paste:

[TEXT ID: 3 screenshots of a Facebook post from the account The Curiosity Curator. the post reads:

"When the washing machine arrived in 1925, she sat on the kitchen floor and cried for three hours-not from joy, but from grief for the fifty years she'd lost.

Mary Richardson was 62 years old when she turned on an electric washing machine for the first time. Her daughter found her sobbing, surrounded by soap and laundry, and asked if someone had died.

Mary looked up, tears streaming down her weathered face, and whispered: "All those Mondays. All those years. It didn't have to be that hard."

For fifty years-every single Monday since she was twelve years old-Mary had done laundry by hand. Not the romantic version you see in nostalgic photographs.

The brutal reality: waking at 4 AM, hauling 50 gallons of water from a frozen well, scrubbing clothes in boiling lye soap that stripped skin from her knuckles, bending over washtubs for ten hours straight until her back spasmed and her hands bled.

2,600 wash days. 26,000 hours of backbreaking labor.

Her diary entries, discovered by her great-granddaughter a century later, tell the truth history books sanitize:

"Monday again. My hands are so raw I can barely hold the pen. I watch Father reading while I scrub his shirts and think: why is his comfort worth more than my hands?"

She was only fourteen when she wrote that.

There was no "bonding" over shared labor. There was exhaustion and silent resentment. There were no songs-only groaning, water splashing, and women too tired to speak.

The washing machine had been invented in the 1850s.

Electric models existed by 1900. Wealthy women in cities had them for decades. But Mary was born poor and rural, so she scrubbed on a washboard until her hands became gnarled and her back permanently bent.

That's a 25-year gap between technology existing and Mary being able to afford it. Twenty-five years of unnecessary suffering.

When the machine finally arrived, it did in fifteen minutes what had taken her two hours of brutal physical labor. She watched it fill with water automatically, agitate the clothes without anyone touching them, and she understood-truly understood for the first time-how much had been stolen from her. She cried for three hours. Not tears of gratitude. Tears of grief.

Her daughter Alice wrote: "Mother grieved for all the Mondays she'd lost. For her ruined hands. For the life she could have had. I tried to comfort her, but what could I say? She was right. It didn't have to be that hard."

Mary lived fifteen more years. She never did laundry again-not because she was too elderly, but because her daughters understood intimately what fifty years of wash days had cost her.

At her funeral in 1940, Alice said: "My mother's hands were destroyed by laundry. Her back was broken by it.

Half her life was stolen by a task that should have been mechanized decades earlier. We're told to celebrate women like her for their resilience. I think we should be angry instead. Angry that she had to be resilient at all." The women in attendance-who'd lived their own decades of wash days-applauded. Because they knew. They all knew.

The washing machine didn't just save time. It liberated women. It gave them back their hands, their health, their Mondays, their lives.

When we romanticize "simpler times" and "family traditions," we erase the reality: women were trapped in systems of domestic labor that destroyed their bodies and stole their futures.

Mary Richardson never got to pursue education, travel, or develop talents beyond domestic skills. Because every Monday was wash day.

She was 62 when a machine did in fifteen minutes what had taken her fifty years. And she grieved for every Monday she'd lost.

Sometimes progress isn't about losing tradition.

Sometimes it's about ending suffering we mistook for virtue.

Sometimes the "good old days" were only good because we've forgotten who was hurting.

And sometimes the greatest gift isn't resilience-it's liberation from ever needing it again."

END TEXT ID]